


Touch

by ParadiseAvenger



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseAvenger/pseuds/ParadiseAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Frost has been alone in the world for three hundred years. No one's ever heard his voice or seen his face or even touched him. "C-can you hear me? C-can you see me?" But all that is about to change. Two shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Hundred Years

Please, check out my first ORIGINAL NOVEL! **The Breaking of Poisonwood by Paradise Avenger.** (Summary: People were dead. When Skye Davis bought me at a slave auction as a birthday present for his brother, I had no idea what my new life was going to be like, but I had never expected this. It all started when Venus de Luna was killed and I was to take her place, to become the new savior… Then, bad things happened and some people died. In the heart of the earth, we discovered the ancient being that Frank Davis had found and created and used to his advantage. The Poisonwood—)

…

Takes place one hundred years before the events of the movie. (Jack is epically hot, no?)

X X X

Two endless centuries… Two hundred lonely years… Twenty empty decades… Two thousand, four hundred months… seventy-three thousand, fifty long days… Jack Frost didn’t want to count the hours, the minutes, or the seconds, that he had spent alone. Most of the time, he just left himself with the vague length of ‘a very long time.’ After all, what was the sense in counting how many Christmases, birthdays, and other special moments that he had spent alone? None. Honestly, thinking about it just made him more depressed, more lonely, more… empty.

Jack Frost sighed, watching his breath plume on the chilly night air.

He told himself—what was it?—fifty-seven years ago that he was going to stop counting even the years, but some treacherous part of his mind marked every winter he spent in the small village where he was born in that frozen lake as the passage of a year. After this Christmas, he would be alone for two hundred and one years. To top it all off, it was even a leap year, a day longer than most normal years. Jack had been alone for fifty leap years and one hundred and fifty regular years.

He sighed, resting his cheek on his bent knee. His staff dangled from his fingers, blowing softly in the wind. 

From his perch in the tall pine tree, he watched over the small village below. Just a few hours ago, he had dusted the quaint little place with powdery snow and now it glimmered in the moonlight beautifully. A few candles glowed in a few windows—a few unable to answer the call of the Sandman or maybe children waiting up a few days early for Santa because they couldn’t yet understand the passage of time as adults did. The longer he watched, more and more soft candlelight vanished from the windows until only one remained. 

Someone else was still up as well, singing a tune, and in the distance, he heard someone crying softly.

He heard a window creak open, nearly silent, and spotted a young girl dressed in her warmest winter clothing sneaking out of her window. She dragged a small satchel out after her, slinging it over her shoulder as she looked around surreptitiously. No one saw her but Jack.

He leaped down smoothly from his perch and let the wind set him gently on his feet below, stirring the thin snowflakes beneath his bare feet. He walked down the streets, following the girl as she hurried to the small bridge that crossed the village’s small river. She waited there, her breath cloudy and her teeth chattering softly. Jack seated himself on the railing beside her, just watching her, waiting with her. Soon enough, in a great hurry with a large horse, a boy approached the bridge.

Breathlessly, they embraced and kissed. Then, the boy helped the girl mount the large horse and tethered her small bag beside his own on the horse’s flank. After a moment of struggle, the girl pulling at his cloak to help him, he swung into the saddle behind her. When she shivered again, he wrapped them both in his cloak and kissed her cheek. For a moment, they hesitated, looking back at the tiny village sparkling with newly-fallen snow, but they did not turn back.

‘They’re eloping,’ Jack realized. For a moment, he thought about doing something to stop them, but decided not to. ‘They’re in love.’ If he could find even one person who could see him, who believed in him, nothing would make him leave their side. So, he let them go and remained sitting on the railing above the rushing water in silence. 

For so long, no one had been able to see him. No one had heard his voice. No one had seen him sitting among the trees or dancing on the frozen lakes nearby or flying through the sky like a bird. No one knew he existed. They all just… walked right through him, through his body, through his soul, without even knowing he was there. He felt a moment of fleeting warmth as they passed through him and it only made the ache worse inside him. What would it be like to be embraced by that warmth, to really truly touch and feel? 

But Jack had a feeling he would never really know what it felt like to be believed in.

The only time anyone even spoke his name—a moment that made his heart soar with hope only to be crushed again—was when mothers warned their children. “You don’t want Jack Frost nipping at your nose, do you?” And then they’d bundle their babies in warmer gloves, hats, and scarves. 

Sometimes, a child would ask, “Who’s Jack Frost?”

And mothers would answer, “No one, dear. It’s just an expression, an old legend. Now, go out and play.” And Jack would stand nearby, his heart breaking a little more, as the child ran right through him on his or her way to play in the snow and their mother would close the door in his face. 

Sometimes, mothers reminded their children to be careful and be certain not to play on the frozen lake. “You don’t want to drown like Jackson Overland did, do you?” they’d caution. Though the name pulled a chord in Jack’s heart, he figured it was merely his sympathy for a child that had died during winter. Or maybe it was a distant twinge of guilt because winter was his element and maybe he could have—should have—done something to protect that child.

Jack rose from the railing of the bridge and headed back into the village, idly swinging his staff and delicately frosting everything in his path. After all, he didn’t want to create a patch of ice and hurt anyone come tomorrow morning. 

A single light still burned in one window of the village. Curious, Jack rose with the wind and peeked in the small window on the second floor, peering through a crack in the shutters. Inside, a bean-pole of a man was working furiously at his desk. His quill was flying, but then he’d suddenly stop, ball up the paper, and throw it away. 

‘A writer,’ Jack thought, ‘and a blocked one at that.’ His blue eyes glinted mischievously, a smirk pulling up the corner of his pale lips. ‘Why not give the poor sap something to write about?’

So, Jack palmed a snowball, breathing on it lightly so that it would be perfect, and threw open the shutters. The writer shrieked, quickly slamming his hands down on his desk to keep his papers from blowing everywhere. Jack tossed the snowball at the writer, catching him cleanly alongside the head. Who knew? Maybe the writer’s imagination would allow him to see Jack. Suddenly, that hope blossomed in Jack’s chest and nearly overwhelmed him.

‘Let him see me,’ Jack pleaded. ‘Please, let him see me… if just one person could see me, I would be…’

But there was no such luck on Jack’s side—no one listening to his silent prayers. 

A screech owl swooped past outside the window, hooting loudly. Snow swirled into the room on the cold night breeze, spinning across the braided rug and around Jack’s ankles. The wind wanted to comfort him, but he was beyond comforting. His hopes had been dashed again. The writer mumbled a curse under his breath to the Gods and at the bird and moved to close the window, treading on the remains of the snowball Jack had thrown. Jack had to hurry back out the window before the writer shut him up inside the room with him. 

Back outside among his element, Jack lifted his head and gazed up at the bright orb of the moon. “Why?” he spoke aloud, knowing that he wouldn’t disturb anyone. No one ever heard his voice. “Why can’t anyone see me? Do I really… not exist?” Sorrow pulled at his heart and he lowered his burning eyes to the frosted path beneath his feet. “Maybe…” he whispered, “I did something terrible and I’m being punished for it… Do I… deserve to suffer? Am I… a bad person?”

But no one answered him—not the Man in the Moon, not a fellow spirit, not the wind, not even an owl.

He moved silently through the small village, unsure of what exactly he was hoping would happen. All he knew was that he needed to feel like he was a part of something, like he belonged, like he existed, but walking the empty streets wasn’t making him feel any less lonely. Then, as fate would have it, he heard the faint creak of a window opening a few inches and the soft chatter of someone’s teeth as they shivered. Was another couple eloping tonight or was it the parents seeking their children already?

He curiously followed the regular creaking sound and found that it was merely a shutter that had been opened a few inches by the wind. He moved towards it, lifting a hand and intending to close the shutter and move on, but something stayed his hand on the cool wood as he went to close it. Inside, her face cast in faint moonlight, a young girl was sleeping. She lay on her side, hands folded on the pillow beside her face, patchwork quilt pulled up to her chin, and she smiled faintly in her sleep even as she shivered.

Temptation chewed at Jack’s soul. No one ever saw him and the window was open like an invitation—even though it was probably one from the wind. If he slipped inside, he could spent the night among this girl’s home and maybe, just maybe, he could pretend he belonged there. So, he hefted himself in through the window and closed the shutter tightly behind himself. Inside though, he hesitated. Why did it feel as though he was doing something naughty, something forbidden? 

He knew about the human traditions and how he could ruin everything for this girl if the one time someone happened to see him, they caught him inside her room. It wouldn’t matter that she didn’t know him and he didn’t know her. All they would care about was how it looked and it would look wrong. But… in two hundred years… no one had seen him. What made him think that this one time, while he was here, someone would see him? He was being… too hopeful and just a bit silly.

Jack pushed the feeling away and moved towards the girl’s bed. She was quite pretty, her pale hair strewn across the pillows and her delicate features smooth with sleep. She murmured in her sleep, shivering slightly, so Jack pulled the second quilt that was folded at the foot of her bed up over her sleeping form. He fully intended to move away from her after that, to explore her house and pretend her family was his, but the feeling of the quilt between his fingers was lovely. He had been wearing his ratty cloak and trousers for two hundred years and the feeling of the plush thick fabric was amazing to his cool fingers.

Even though he was a winter spirit and wasn’t cold in the wintery weather, he still liked the idea of a warm soft blanket to wrap himself up in. Even though he was perfectly comfortable sleeping in a snowdrift or on a tree branch, he still wondered what it would be like to sleep in a real bed. And, because it was night and he was already feeling so lonely and desperate, he sat down on the girl’s bed beside her. When she didn’t stir, he stretched his long svelte body out beside her.

The bed cradled him, softer than the wind or even a soft fall of powdery snow. And the girl’s body, though she passed through him where their shoulders touched, gave off that faint heat that he craved. He imagined he could really feel her, wrapping himself in the warmth of her room and the smell of her clean hair and skin. Though he still didn’t feel like he quite belonged here, it was the closest he had ever come to the feeling he so desperately wished for. 

Jack set his staff down beside the bed in easy reach, just in case. Then, he closed his tired eyes and cuddled up against the unaware human’s side. He didn’t need to sleep, so he just rested, listening to her breathe and enjoying the feeling of the soft bed and faint warmth he gained from her body. It was almost everything he wanted. 

She shifted position after a while, rolling in her bed so she was facing him. Her hands were still folded beside her face, fingers lightly curled. Jack opened his eyes and gazed at her face, smiling faintly. Then, he lifted his hand and rested it on hers on the pillow. She murmured, teeth chattering faintly, as his cold hand passed through her. Ashamed, he pulled his hand back and thought about leaving.

He really should, but he just… he didn’t want to. He couldn’t.

Jack settled down beside her again, gazing at her pretty face dappled with moonlight. As if sensing his scrutiny, she rolled over and put her back to him, pulling the covers up higher as if to hide within them. Jack sighed sadly, closing his eyes again, but remained lying at her back. He soaked up what he could of the almost-touch he felt where her body just barely touched and passed through his own. What would it feel like to actually touch her?

Sunlight began to peek through the shutters, playing through the icicles that hung outside the window. The light fell across her face and she moaned softly, beginning to stir into the waking world and leaving her dreams behind until the next night. 

It was then that Jack felt it.

It was so sudden and strange that, for a moment, he didn’t understand. He felt pressure where her back was pressed to his chest. She stretched and her muscles flexed against him, pushing back and not passing through his body. He quickly lifted his hands, cupping her covered shoulders and squeezed softly. Sure enough, her flesh felt real and so amazingly warm beneath his cool hands that it stole his breath. He gasped softly, his heart hammering.

But as quickly as the moment came, it ended. Feeling his touch, the girl came quickly into full wakefulness and whirled to see what was touching her. For a moment, Jack tensed—caught between fear and desperate hope that she would see him. But her dark eyes went right through him and his hands suddenly passed through her body, causing her to shiver.

She didn’t see him.

He couldn’t touch her any longer.

It seemed that right on the border between awake and asleep, children believed enough for him to touch them, if only for a moment. In two hundred years, Jack Frost had never once been touched—walked through and ignored, but he had never been touched. The feeling was… he couldn’t even describe it, but he craved more. There was an empty place in his soul that was suddenly so much more painful, so much more forward and glaring. It was like a physical wound. 

He wanted—no, he needed—to be touched more.

But the girl had risen from her bed and was beginning to undress. A flush quickly colored Jack’s cheeks. He grabbed his staff from the floor and dove for the window, nearly catching himself comically with his staff on the frame in his rush. He heard her shriek behind him as the wind and snow swirled into her warm room and she hurried to close the shutter. 

Then, the morning was quiet and beautifully frosted. 

All around him, the village was stirring. 

Someone was called two names, probably the names of the young couple Jack had seen elope the night before, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. (Distantly, he hoped they were alright and happy and that they had kept each other warm in the cold night.)

He had been touched!

A soft whoop of joy escaped him and he did his best not to show his happiness by frosting the people that milled nearby. He let the wind lift him up like a leaf and blow him into the forest where he could let out his powers and his joy without restraint. He found his way to the lake where he had been born and danced across it, skating nimbly across the surface, laughing.

He had been touched!

And it felt so unbelievably wonderful!

How had he lived without that feeling for two hundred years? Even those few fleeting seconds he had experienced were more than he ever desired. Being touched made him feel like he really existed, like he was alive, and he was already looking forward eagerly for night. Maybe, he would slide into bed beside another child and—in that moment before they woke completely—they would be able to touch him and he them. 

A smile pulled his lips and he leaned on his staff, watching the frosty patterns spread beneath his bare feet. The village was coming awake. Men headed off to work, accepting kisses from their wives. Mothers bundled up their children, warning them of Jack Frost’s chill and to be careful lest they become like Jackson Overland. Children began to play and laugh, enjoying the snow. It was perfect for making snowballs, after all. Jack watched over them, his faint smile remaining on his face even as the children skated right through him on the lake’s surface.

Finally, Jack had been able to feel someone’s touch—even for a few seconds. Somehow, those seconds wiped away two hundred years of neglect and loneliness. He knew that he could somehow exist if only one person would believe in him. If they believed, they could see him and touch him. Somehow, someday, he would make that happen.

He gave himself that one promise.

“Someone will be able to see me,” he whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

One of the children turned, but looked right through him. Maybe it was mere coincidence, but Jack wasn’t worried. He knew someone would see him, and touch him, again someday. Little did he know, one hundred years was a long and painful wait. By the time another managed to touch him, he had given up on it ever really happening. He had given his frozen heart over to the thought that he as doomed to only ever feel a child’s touch in those fleeting seconds between awake and asleep. He had forgotten his promise to himself, along with the promise that he would stop counting the long years he spent alone.

X X X

You know, it occurred to me. If Jack hasn’t been believed in or seen for three hundred years yet he still has all his powers, wouldn’t that make him epically strong once four or five kids start believing in him? Makes more sense to me. That’s probably why they need him—because his powers don’t seem to have anything to do with children’s belief in him.

Questions, comments, concerns?


	2. Three Hundred Years

You know, I decided that Jack probably doesn’t need belief for his powers to work. I mean, he’s an element. Winter is going to keep on happening regardless of whether or not people believe in it. Tooth and North and Bunny all kind of need people to believe for them to even have something to do so they’re probably more into the whole belief thing. 

This chapter contains moderate movie spoilers. (Nothing I’m sure everyone wasn’t expecting. It is a movie for little kids, after all. It’s not like you didn’t all know the bad guy was going to lose in the end and Jack was going to be all lovingly accepted into the Guardians. Come on.)

X X X

Another hundred years passed Jack by, without so much as glancing at the lonely winter spirit. But then again, time cared for no one. Time didn’t slow for Santa if he was behind schedule for Christmas. It didn’t wait for the Sandman to put children to sleep at night. Father Time went at his own pace, uncaring for the rest of the world, so Jack Frost shouldn’t have felt too special to be ignored at well. Even so, he should have been used to being ignored by now.

But he really wasn’t. 

Time didn’t make the feeling of abandonment any less painful in his heart.

Jack Frost had done some stupid things in the last hundred years, begging for attention—any attention at all, even if it was too be shouted at or beaten—just so he could feel something other than the endless cold and dark and emptiness inside his own soul. He needed to feel like he was real, like he existed in this world, no matter what it cost his body or his mind.

He buried Bunnymund’s Easter Egg Hunt in five feet of snow one year, the Blizzard of ’68 as Bunny came to grudgingly refer to it as when he threatened Jack off every Easter after that. After that disastrous holiday, Jack wasn’t eager to repeat his performance regardless of all the bad attention Bunny gave him. He didn’t really fancy being hit in the face with boomerangs more times than he cared to count. After the blizzard, Jack spent several hours face-down in a snow drift, hoping the swelling and pain would recede. But at least Bunny came to threaten him off each and every Easter after that. It wasn’t much, but it was contact.

He tried to break into North’s workshop at the North Pole several times each year, but he never got past the Yetis so it was pointless really. But he tried anyway, just for the feeling of those warm furry paws grabbing him by the back of his shirt or trousers and tossing him out the nearest window or door. The wind was always there to make sure he didn’t break his neck or anything stupid like that.

He didn’t do much to hinder the Tooth Fairies or Sandman. After all, both paid him specs of attention when they could spare a moment in their busy schedules. Not everyone only had to work one day a year so he couldn’t really grudge them.

Mainly, he terrorized the spring-bearing spirits and the Groundhog. A few times, he had managed to get the jump on Groundhog and earned himself six more weeks of winter, but the Groundhog was mean and grouchy and it got harder for Jack each year.

Mostly, Jack Frost was alone except for the wind and the snow for another hundred years.

The modern age came with a lot of things—running water, carry-out Chinese food, indoor plumbing, fashionable hooded sweatshirts, and locks. There were a lot of locks. It had been at least fifty years since Jack had even been able to steal into bed with a child to enjoy those fleeting seconds where he could touch and be touched. Too many people didn’t trust anymore, fewer children believed now, and there were so many locks. There were locks on front doors, back doors, screen doors, garages, sheds, windows, screens, and ventilation hatches. Locks, locks, locks.

And during the day, regardless of what he did or how loudly he called, no one saw or heard him. Children continued to walk right through his body and soul as they had for three hundred years. Parents warned their children about Jack Frost, but no longer spoke of Jackson Overland drowning in the nearby lake. Like Jack, the poor dead child was forgotten as well. He probably didn’t even have a grave…

Jack shook his head harshly, trying to chase out those depressing thoughts. He found that if he began to think them, nothing—not even the wind—could save him from the downward spiral that tore into his raw heart and soul afterwards.

And so, Jack was locked out completely. The only sort of contact he got was looking through locked glass windows, wishing he belonged to the family inside, wishing someone would care for him and believe in him and touch him. But no one ever did. It was in moments like that when the wind would ruffle his hair and try to make him feel better, but even the wind had a family. 

Jack was one of a kind, special, but no one ever thought about just how difficult that really was.

He shook his head sharply again and painted a smile on his face. If he smiled and laughed and played games, he could pretend he was happy. And if he pretended long enough, at least for a little while, it became his reality. ‘Happy thoughts,’ he told himself. ‘Happy thoughts. Snow days!’

…

Jack Frost had come to terms with the fact that no one was ever going to see him. He had all but given up, but he knew what it felt like not to be believed in. He knew what it felt like to be walked through and not seen or touched and that was not a feeling he would wish on his greatest enemy. So, when he found that only one child in the entire world believed anymore—even though it was the child he had tried so hard to get to see him—he knew he had to do something so the child would keep believing in the others. He arrived at the window, mercifully unlocked, and peeked inside.

Jamie was sitting on his bed, covers strewn about like he had woken from a nightmare with his little legs folded in a very adult fashion. Also very adult in such a young child were the words he spoke, as if he had rehearsed for this moment.

“Alright,” he told the stuffed rabbit seated before him. “You and I are obviously at what they call a crossroads. So here’s what’s going to happen. If it wasn’t a dream—if you are real—then you have to prove it… right now.” 

Silence spread through the night and Jack was practically holding his breath, praying that somehow Bunnymund would hear his child crying out for proof and somehow magically answer his call. But there was a long moment where no one answered Jamie and no one seemed to even be listening… except Jack Frost, that was.

“I’ve believed in you for a long time so you kind of owe me,” Jamie picked up the small stuffed rabbit, holding it tightly. “You don’t have to do much. Just a little sign, just so I know. Anything… anything at all…” The child’s eyes shone in the moonlight, so deep with hope and belief that it shattered Jack’s heart. 

‘Come on,’ Jack prayed with Jamie. ‘Bunny, answer him…’

But the night remained still and silent. Just as no one ever answered Jack, no one answered Jamie.

“I knew it,” Jamie whispered, a sob cracking his voice. Defeated, his shoulders slumped. He hesitated a moment, his knuckles whitening, before he tossed his stuffed rabbit away. Tears welled helplessly in his bright eyes, gathering on his lashes. 

Jack gasped, his heart skipping beats. The toy gazed up at Jack as if it had a life, a consciousness. Its mismatched button eyes pleaded with Jack, begged him, or maybe that was just Jack’s own desperation feeding on Jamie’s despair. He saw North’s globe in his mind as the very last light flickered and went dark. ‘No… No. No!’

He wouldn’t allow this to happen! He couldn’t let the last child that believed in the Guardians to give up! Jack pushed the window open, shooting a glare at the locks he so loathed and moved his attention to the windowpane. It wasn’t as if he could walk right up to Jamie and tell him that they were all real. He couldn’t even show Jamie because no one believed in, saw, or heard Jack Frost. 

Leaves and ribbons of frost wove across the glass, crackling slightly as they spread across two panes. Using his finger, Jack scraped away the frost to form an image. First, he drew an Easter egg, one of so many he had helped paint only to screw it all up for Bunnymund by not being there when Pitch attacked. Jack swallowed the knot in his throat. 

At his back, he heard Jamie gasp.

In the second frosted pane, Jack drew a rabbit. Then, not knowing whether or not he really could but knowing in his heart that Jamie needed more than drawings in frost on his window to believe with his whole heart, Jack willed the frost to come alive in his fingers. At first, nothing happened. Then, all at once, the drawing surged from the window and bounded around the room.

Jamie sprang to his knees, laughing, as the bunny hopped all around the warm air of his bedroom. “He’s real!”

Jack laughed too, laughed from his heart, because as much as the other Guardians loved and were believed in by children all over the world, Jack didn’t think any of them really spent time with children. Jack did. He played with them daily, listened to them even if they couldn’t hear him, watched over them, and gave them the joy of white Christmases and snow days time and again. Yes, the other Guardians were believed in and seen, but they weren’t really there for the children. But Jack was. Jack always was.

Abruptly, the rabbit burst into a shower of snowflakes in the heat of the room. 

‘Whoops,’ Jack thought and kind of wished he didn’t say that so much. Why was he such a screw up? He couldn’t even do this one thing right.

Jamie gasped, lifting his face to the gently falling flakes. “Whoa,” he whispered, feeling the cold snow melt on his nose. He remembered his mother warning him not to let Jack Frost nip at his nose. “Snow?” Then, he suddenly whispered, “Jack Frost?”

Jack’s head snapped up. “Did he just say…?”

“Jack Frost,” Jamie said again, turning slightly on his bed.

“He said it again,” Jack gasped. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually said his name as something other than a warning to keep warm in the winter’s chill. “He said—You said—”

Jamie turned completely, facing Jack’s direction. “Jack Frost,” he whispered again, awe in his young voice.

“That’s right! B-but that’s me. Jack Frost, that’s my name!” he gasped, caught between staggering backwards and wanting to reach out and grab hold of this moment before it escaped him forever. He moved back towards the child, hope shining in his rich blue eyes. “You said my name,” he gasped out, hardly able to believe the words himself.

Jamie continued to just stare, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in awe.

“Wait,” Jack whispered because he really felt like this child was looking right at him. His eyes burned traitorously. Honestly, when would he learn that he just didn’t exist to children. They never saw him, yet his lips were just as traitorous as his eyes and his heart. He found himself whispered those hateful always-unanswered words, “C-can you hear me?” 

Jaime only nodded, probably less shocked to find a bare-foot frost-dusted teen in his bedroom at ten o’clock at night than Jack himself was to finally be seen.

“C-can you see me?” Jack whispered, his heart caught in his throat and choking him with desperate hope. He was certain all that was left of him would shatter like too-thin ice if this child looked away without answering him. Jack needed to be seen, finally. He couldn’t even breathe as he waited for the answer.

Again, Jaime only nodded.

“H-he sees me!” Jack gasped, his lithe body weaving forward and back as the emotions overwhelmed his small frame. Frost fanned out uncontrollably at his feet. He wanted so badly to grab Jaime up in his arms and hug him, hold him, be touched after a hundred years of feeling nothing at all. “He sees me!” he shouted, his voice cracking and breaking with such happiness that it was painful.

And it was the happiest moment of Jack’s long and painful life. It was a little unfortunate that he couldn’t enjoy it more. After all, Jaime was the very last light on the globe and Pitch Black was coming and he had to try to save his fellow Guardians. Even so, Jack tucked this moment into his heart where he could cherish it for the rest of his life.

…

All eyes were on Pitch Black after the Guardians plus a handful of children that still believed had beaten back the tide of the Boogeyman’s fear. But as Jack instigated a snowball fight and Pitch dozed in Sandman’s dreamland nearby, no one paid much attention to their nemesis. No one, that is, except Jack.

After he made sure all the children were safe and happy and did what he could to drop the temperature of the cold winter air so no one would become frostbitten, he turned his attention to Pitch. The Boogeyman was staggering to his feet, brushing golden sand from his hair and shoulders. He staggered to his feet and looked around at the fun that spread in Jack’s wake with something between terror and longing and desperation and panic. Or maybe it was an emotion Jack didn’t even have a name for.

“How dare you have fun in my presence!” Pitch shouted. “I am the Boogeyman! And you will fear me!”

The snowball in Jack’s fingers slipped from his grasp and fell among the fresh snow soundlessly. He turned to face Pitch, his heart pounding because—though he and his fellow Guardians turned to listen to Pitch’s rant with half an ear—not a single child turned to even look at their fallen enemy. Laughing, Jaime ran towards Pitch and the words to warn Jaime were on Jack’s tongue when the child simply passed right through Pitch harmlessly.

‘Not that,’ Jack thought, a hand wandering to his own chest because he knew exactly how painful that was.

Pitch gasped in shock, a pained cry escaping his lips. He clutched at his chest, looking desperately at the children, elves, and yetis. Not a single one turned to look at him even as he staggered among them, making weak sounds of pain and horror. Then, he turned his gaze desperately to the Guardians, desperate for someone—anyone, even them—to see him. Thank the Man in the Moon that all five Guardians were looking right at him with mixed expressions.

North’s arms were folded, heavy brows drawn together in disapproval, clearly feeling back at his peak after the lack of faith had turned him into the old man he really was. Tooth was checking over a swarm of fairies weaving around her head. She was probably gathering the horror stories from them after being kidnapped by Pitch. Bunnymund glared, his sharp front teeth bared. Sandman, ever kind and forgiving, glanced at Pitch and merely shook his head. 

The only one who looked as horrified as Pitch felt was Jack Frost, the boy he had tried to torment and kill. Jack knew what it felt like to be ignored for three hundred years. He knew what it was like to have nothing. He understood what Pitch felt inside at that moment when the children passed right through him. 

In that moment, Pitch turned and fled like the shadow he was. 

The Guardians quickly followed, determined to stamp out this problem once and for all. But Jack hesitated, a horrible thought crossing his mind. What if after all the pain and loneliness he went through for three hundred years, he had become just like Pitch Black? Pitch had even said he knew how Jack felt and now Jack realized just how much they had in common. His heart trembled and he quickly hurried after the others. 

They had gathered on the frozen lake where he was born and had formed a veritable wall before Pitch. One by one, they threatened the nasty spirit, taking revenge for what he had done to them and the children alike. Jack hung back behind them, unable to find anything to say. His eyes were merely sad, his mouth set hard. Despite what Pitch had done to him, he felt no desire to take any form of revenge on Pitch Black—especially not now that he felt the similarities between them. 

“You will never get rid of me—not forever,” Pitch shouted desperately. “There will always be fear.”

“So what?” North said firmly. “So long as one child believes, we will be here to fight fear.”

“Really?” Pitch demanded. “Then what are they doing here?” He swept out his arms to encompass the Night Mares that crested the hills all above them.

North shrugged, unperturbed. “Can’t be my nightmares,” he said with a shrug. “I am not afraid.”

“It’s your fear,” Jack breathed out, but his voice was surprisingly loud in the silence of the aftermath.

Pitch’s eyes widened and he glanced desperately up at the Night Mares. He screamed as they swarmed over him, dragging him down into the depths from whence he came. Then, the world was calm and silent and dusted with a few fluffy flakes of snow. At the Guardian’s backs, the children came over the crest of the hill, laughing and smiling. It was time to say goodbye.

“Jack!” Jaime shouted.

Jack turned, his staff resting on his shoulder, a soft smile curving his pale lips. Yet when he saw the child running towards him, arms outstretched for a hug, there was a moment of pure panic where Jack wanted to run. What if when Jaime reached him and went to touch him, he passed right through Jack? But Jack was tired from the battle and didn’t move fast enough. Jaime threw his arms around Jack’s hips and hugged him tightly, desperately.

Jack gasped, his hands frozen, unable to move. He held his breath, waiting, waiting for the pain to come when he was passed through, but it never did. All he felt was warmth—the warmth of a true touch, a true embrace. He breathed out suddenly and slid to his knees in relief. Jaime merely hugged the winter spirit around the neck, squeezing tighter and burying his face in the side of Jack’s throat. Jack hugged Jaime in return, closing his eyes in bliss.

A touch… he was being touched. When his blue eyes opened slightly as Jaime moved to release him, Jack saw the other children standing there. Though they were looking mostly at Santa and the Easter Bunny, he knew they could see him. And Jaime was hugging him. And Pitch was gone. And all was right with the world.

And that was alright with Jack… so long as he had been seen and touched, even this one time…

“It’s time to go, Jack,” North called softly.

“Let’s go home, Jack!” Tooth murmured.

“C’mon, mate,” Bunny said kindly.

Sandy gestured at him, smiling.

Suddenly, Jack’s raw heart warmed. Maybe, he didn’t have to be alone and untouched for another three hundred years after all.

X X X

And *drum roll* we’re finished. Jack is just a deliciously angsty character. It also helps that he’s gorgeous and has so much room for fun development in fanfiction. Plus, he really did have so much room to turn into a villain and didn’t. All that said, I’ll probably wind up writing more for him in the future.

So, drop me a REVIEW, tell me what you thought. Loved it? Hated it? Too angsty? Too sad? All that good stuff?

Also, I own nothing except my original characters (none) and creative plotlines. Rise of the Guardians does not belong to me and everyone should go see it.

And NO SEQUEL. So don’t ask!

Then, check out my first ORIGINAL NOVEL! **The Breaking of Poisonwood by Paradise Avenger.** (Summary: People were dead. When Skye Davis bought me at a slave auction as a birthday present for his brother, I had no idea what my new life was going to be like, but I had never expected this. It all started when Venus de Luna was killed and I was to take her place, to become the new savior… Then, bad things happened and some people died. In the heart of the earth, we discovered the ancient being that Frank Davis had found and created and used to his advantage. The Poisonwood—)

Questions, comments, concerns?

And so, I bid you adieu.


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